We’re riding rainbows down to the sparkling Rhine, like shahs on gilded geldings. We’re going to catch some silky SoulFish.
A shadow the circumference of Saturn’s rings eclipses sunlit waters, clips the Achilles heel of dayspring.
Here in the shade burns: lace embroidered with translucent, smoky-gray roses, the embers man-eating the bride-whites in the fabric.
The lapping light is hungry, thirsty. You’d think that this shadow’s woven woof was dear old Sin, barking up the wrong pome tree;
You’d think that umber shade should enter her chrysalis, and emerge sparkling red like bobbing apples in a barrel, or like sunlight kissing corneas through papery, closed eyelids; because, lust is ripe in the black of full dark, but its color is a buxom red.
Lust is so red, that you could say that these naked, dark-mottled waters were a salacious cherry.
Here, by the riverfront, is the black fire of sans-candle darkness; here, the glassy light is virginal, like a newly minted maenad, her face the color of sex in the water—
I know your secrets.
I see your invisible shadows plainly. I see souls: we catch them everyday: you catch mine (yin); and I catch yours (yang).
It’s like spirit handball for fishermen; like a moneyball sutra for a Bodhisattva.